


Cu Sidhe

by Starofwinter



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Gen, thanks to kaminoan genetic engineering, the wolfpack are fae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starofwinter/pseuds/Starofwinter
Summary: "The Kaminiise weren't exactly honest aboutwhatthey mixed the template's genes with."





	Cu Sidhe

**Author's Note:**

> This AU was brought about thanks to a chat with [Gallus!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallusRostromegalus/pseuds/GallusRostromegalus)

There are rumors about the Wolfpack.  They were an experimental batch, their genes mixed with _something_ that was never even close to human - the more superstitious of their Mando’ade trainers mutter grimly about _jat’adate_ , and well, that’s the closest anyone comes to _naming_ what the Kaminoans mixed Jango’s DNA with.  The Kaminoans had _perfected_ the genetic cocktail to make the best soldiers they could.  Only… there was something about them that made them _different_.  Wolffe’s name had come early though, from the way he stalked through the halls with his Pack-mates flanking him, eyes fixated on the Kaminoans like a predator watching prey.  They’re ghosts in Tipoca City, silent and always watching with those glittering eyes that catch the light in a way no human’s ever could.  

The Kaminoans have no idea what they’ve unleashed.  

* * *

 

Wolffe learns to hunt from another near-predator.  The Togruta may be civilized sentient members of the Republic now, but they were predators once, and Shaak Ti knows very well how to hunt, how to stalk Kaminoans, nosing around the edges of the groups and _observing_ , singling out the weakest members.  He won’t hunt without his Pack, so he teaches them too.  It only takes a week for them to become adept at herding stragglers away from their groups to take them down.  Wolffe decides it’s only fair, for how many of his brothers _they’ve_ culled.  

They ace their training - they _are_ perfect, after all.  As a unit, they’re the most cohesive squad Kamino has to offer, if the most unconventional.  Plo requests them to lead the 104th from the moment he meets them.  He accepts their eccentricities without question, and they love him for it.  He’s accepted as their Pack leader - more than a general, _one of them_ \- after their first mission, when he steps into danger to keep them safe, despite their protests; he insists their lives are as valuable as his own.  It’s the first time any of them have heard that, and they spend hours discussing it that night, safely tucked into the nest they’ve made of bunk mattresses and blankets and pillows in a corner of their ship barracks.  They decide then and there that he is _theirs_ , he’s family, _Pack_.  He hadn’t thought twice about almost taking blaster bolts for them, and they’ll do the same for him if they have a chance.  

Plo lets them hunt, too.  When he knows it’s safe - and they trust his judgment on safety - he tells them to have fun, and they all know he’s smiling, or an approximation of it, behind his mask.  After the hunt, they drag their kill back, and butcher it themselves.  Spirits are always high then, magic pounding in their veins, eyes all but glowing, unnaturally bright.  Blood smears their mouths, the first shared bites of fresh meat like offerings to gods they remember only as bone-deep calls that ring like the sound of their own hearts thundering in their ears.  They cook the rest - they’re not kriffing _animals_ , Wolffe says - but they share that too.  They share it with Plo as well, he’s _Pack_ , even if he doesn’t hunt with them.  

They know the natural-born officers don’t like them.  Call them unnatural, call them _freaks_ , tank-breds, meat droids…  Yeah, they know all the insults slung about.  It stings a little - they’re kriffing sentient beings, might be made to order, but hells, at least they knew who their genetic material came from, in Wolffe’s opinion.  There was plenty of resentment on both sides, but as long as the nat-borns left them alone, they got along just fine.  Slights can be ignored, no matter how much it galls the parts of them that _remembers_ that they aren’t human, that _remembers_ when insults to those of their blood (no matter how diluted theirs might be) are repaid with a _vengeance_.  

They _can’t_ ignore those instincts when one of their packmates is in the fucking medbay because a whole kriffing batch of Seppies had ambushed them and Plo had taken a godsdamned _hail_ of blaster bolts.  His bones were kriffing _singing_ for blood, to hunt down and rip apart whoever had laid a hand on _his packmate_.  He leaves most of the Pack behind to watch over their general, but Sinker and Boost flank him, and their silence still speaks volumes as they sweep through camp.  Their brothers step back to let them go, quiet and still, instinct born of millennia ago keeping them quiet in the face of hunting predators.

The camp is easy to find, and it’s the work of an hour and a few good shots to get them on the run.  They’re not human, and Wolffe’s hunting instincts pick out exactly what he and Sinker and Boost need to do - follow them.  Slow and easy, waiting till they can’t run anymore.  Running on foot takes energy, and all the Pack needs to do is follow until they get tired.  Wolffe knows exactly how unnerving it can be, and his lips curve in a smirk.   _Good_.  They’ve earned a slow death.  

The hunt lasts for a few days, slowly pursuing the Seps till they drop from exhaustion.  They go down easy after that, and Wolffe wonders if the rest of the Pack can hear their triumphant howls as they echo off the canyon walls, ghostly and triumphant and hungry for _vengeance_.

They slink back to camp in the middle of the night and set to work.  By the time they catch the transport out, there's no evidence left behind of their hunt, or what they might have done with their kills.

* * *

 Plo ventures down to the mess hall late at night, in search of a cup of tea before he goes to sleep, trying to keep his bandaged arm still.  It’s mostly healed, but one of the bolts caught bone, shattering it, and it still aches as it knits together.

 His eyes catch on motion in the deep shadows and he turns slowly to see Wolffe sitting alone, tearing strips of meat off a disturbingly large ribcage - he searches his memory for the last time anything like that was packed in their supplies, and finds he can’t remember.  They’ve been on campaign for months now, there was no way Wolffe could have gotten fresh meat anywhere...  

Wolffe’s eyes glow in the faint light as they meet his; it’s so eerie and inhuman that Plo is taken aback for a moment.  His commander smiles up at him, the expression is friendly, but his unnaturally sharp teeth flash just a little; Plo gives him a slow, respectful nod before heading back out the way he came, leaving him to his meal.  The tea can wait.  


End file.
